Dedicated to Lucille Kruse on her 100th birthday 2022, Issue One
Bad Hair Day Mangave Hybrid
Photo Provided by Gabriel Edward Navarro
Javelinashavevoices!Wehearthemallthetime,intheclassrooms,inthecorridorsofthecampushalls,intheuniversity grounds, and in the cities and towns and ranches and homes of South Texas. Javelinas speak many languages! The symphony of our different tongues represents the call of the Javelina family. Javelinas tell stories! These stories are important because they weave together the soul of the Javelina Nation and the culture of South Texas.
So, we got together with a vision—a vision to create a space for Javelinas to tell their stories, share their poetry, showcase their art. A group of enterprising students, with the guidance of a few advisors, volunteered their time and put in the extraordinary effort to create a new literary magazine, The Javelina Express.
The Javelina Express carrying its first cargo of stories, poems, and artwork from across campus is now coming into Javelina Station! Our mission is picking up steam, and with your support, we will continue to bring you the stories of our community and culture for years to come.
Poetry
Short Fiction
Graceful Owl
By Monica Alejandra Perez
As the world slumbers, my owl comes out of her solitude.
Soaring high into the darkening sky, she dares what others never dream of doing. She yearns to find her place among the moon and stars. Though people have called her a dark creature, I see her hunt for wisdom in the darkest night And know her to be made of moonlight and stars. Perching upon an ancient oak tree, she has pondered life’s profound questions, And her purpose gives her grace. With her quiet poise and quick eyes, my owl’s sharp talons seize the answer like hidden prey.
And there is no greater joy than to have truth in her grasp, no greater love than to discover God in these little truths. And underneath God’s skies, Who dares say she is darkness when her triumphs reveal the fire in her soul. Where are these blind fools, when she searches for knowledge in that impenetrable darkness How can they not notice her beauty when she comes out again to meet the moon and stars
But I see her now.
As my graceful owl brings enlightenment and truth to this world. One truth is evident that there will never be another like my graceful owl. Because she is made of moonlight and stars.
Unity
Fulden Sara 3 Ceramic Pieces
Earthenware Ceramics & Decals
13.5” Diameter
Cuando Se Apaga La Luz
Por Myrka A. Gonzalez
Cuando se apaga la luz quedo solo yo
Quedan los temores que corren por el cuarto desesperados por salir
Queda el vacío inminente que se refleja en el espejo del atardecer
Quedan las luchas de las mañanas donde se arrastran las cobijas de la soledad
Queda la chica que se refleja en los versos de una mente cansada
Queda el grito de socorro desgarrador de un alma que pide ser salvada sin hablar
Quedan las letras que expresan la tristeza de un corazón intranquilo
Queda la niña que se esconde debajo de las sábanas para no ser encontrada por los monstruos de la realidad.
{ The Quiet Wrath }
Ashley Jannett Navarro, 2021, color pencil
A Goddess’ Grace
by Andrew Hall
It had been six days since the airship had come crashing down in the frozen wasteland of Asaydia. Through the hellfire of a battle gone ill, Sariel was among the few fortunate to survive. However, Sariel found no comfort in survival for her lover Michael had sadly perished amidst the rubble and flame. He was the ship’s mechanic, and the first human she had ever met who was not hungry for her magic. Michael had seen her for who she was, not for what she possessed. He was the first human to love an elf in over a thousand years. Yet it seemed the Realm of Asaydia had a way of keeping the humans and elves apart. During the attack, their ship had been struck from the sky. The engine room had caved in around him, and for five days, she tried to dig him out but there was nothing left for her to retrieve. This left Sariel in a state of dismay as she slowly ascended the stairs to the once proud deck of the Horizon’s Bounty, now in ruin. The moonlight welcomed the fair elven maiden as she was of the Moontouched Clan, those that served under the Moon Maiden Vertania.
Under the gaze of Vertania and silver streams of light, the markings of her people began to appear. They covered her body like wildfire in the mountains and gave off a light blue glow of
radiant energy that filled the space around her. It was as if a burning star had emerged from her that held a faint thrum that turned into tune. Almost like that of harps being played in distant hills, letting the sound carry on the wind.
Sariel closed her eyes and listened as the breeze that gently flowed over her delicate skin and through her silver hair turned to song. Her feet moved swiftly over the deck of the ship with grace and elegance as she began to dance.
Within the sound of song and wind, she heard a voice. It was strong and powerful like stone, yet graceful and comforting. It spoke in a language not of elfkind nor mankind, but the language of gods.
”Thou who dances so fair, under the light of moon and star, why does thee carry such a heavy heart? In my light, you find comfort, yet your heart is split. A being between worlds, not knowing one’s true home.
Fear and doubt cloud your mind, leaving sadness and despair.
One who dances so fair yet carries the weight of worlds on their shoulders. Their feet shackled to the floor, yet they move with grace under moon and star. For in the light, they find comfort and strength, Yet their shackles do not break.
Freedom do they seek, yet chains they do find, unaware of the answers below their feet...”
With that the voice faded back into song and wind, leaving the elven girl to dance in peace until the light of day. Her pain began fading away amongst the stars until the first light of morning crept over the icebound land. For the grace of her goddess comforted her. Many moments passed as she stared at the sky. A single glistening tear fell from her face and seeped between the cracks of the broken deck.
In that moment, her ears twitched as she heard heavy footfalls ascending the stairs. The scent of oil and sulfur gently filled her nose. It was not a scent that was welcome to most, but to Sariel, it was like nectar from the sweetest of flowers.
As she quickly spun to see if all she had hoped for had come true, she was caught within the strong arms of a tall man, covered in ash and oil. His brown eyes like pools of honey stared into hers with all the love and admiration he could muster.
Michael had emerged from ash and flame, escaping the clutches of the devil so that he may gaze upon the beautiful elf maiden again. For his love, he would cross through hellfire just for the chance to hold her in his arms again. All the worries and fear faded as she leaned into his welcoming embrace causing sparks to run rampant through her chest like fireworks on an autumn eve. And just like that, all was right again as she felt the gentle caress of his arms once more under the amber glow of the rising sun.
by Bryson Olivarez
Ceramic Sculptures
El Mímico
by Andrea Marie Gonzalez
Los niños buenos no eran difíciles de encontrar en el pueblo remoto rodeado de bosques y arbustos indómitos, excepto el joven Daniel. Daniel era un arrogante y grosero niño de 9 años que vivía con su abuela en el extremo más alejado de la ciudad. Su infamia era conocida en todo el pueblo como el niño que causaba problemas dondequiera que iba y preocupaba a su pobre abuela sin fin. Sin embargo, lo que mantenía a todos los niños en su mejor comportamiento y en casa antes del anochecer era la advertencia de la leyenda de El mímico. Imitando las voces de sus seres queridos, El mímico utilizaba su garganta hueca para atraer a los niños desobedientes al bosque. Esta criatura maliciosa podía oler las impurezas del corazón y las codiciaba como un manjar. Solo los niños malos hacían a este glotón alejarlos de la luz y consumir sus corazones negros sobre un fuego indómito.
Un día, en contra de los deseos de su abuela, Daniel salió y se escondió de sus tareas hasta que el sol penetrante finalmente se escondió debajo de la tierra. Ni una sola estrella iluminaba el cielo, e incluso la luna estaba escondida en esta noche ominosa. Daniel de mala gana comenzó a caminar de regreso a la casa de su abuela, con el rostro plagado de desprecio, y su corazón lleno de sólo él. No tenía miedo, ni tampoco se preocupaba de que estaba oscuro, porque no creía en El mímico, lo descartaba como una tonta leyenda utilizada únicamente para producir hijos obedientes. Mientras marchaba lentamente por el camino poco iluminado, oyó un crujido en el siniestro cepillo. Y como si llamara desde el bosque oscuro, la voz de su abuela llenó la cabeza de Daniel y lo llamó hacia ella. Justo cuando iba a salir del camino y entrar en la oscuridad, tuvo una sensación fuerte y ominosa como si el peligro lo esperaba en esa madera oscura y se detuvo. Luego comenzó a escuchar que la voz de su abuela se impacientaba mientras Daniel continuamente se negaba a salir de la luz. “Danielito por favor ven aquí...¿Por qué no vienes a mí?” “¿No quieres abrazar a tu abuela?” “¡Eres un chico muy malo por desobedecerme!”
Basalt walls
A black wound
Bled lava, stopped
At the Bottom of the Rift
by C. Downs, 2nd
Mar. 2020
Now I’m driving on the Earth’s hardened scars
Sub-dermal,
The surface does not recall.
The denizens of the desert
Seek shade, stop at the water’s edge. Here is where the mantle swells
The Earth’s real substance
A revelation of depths we only guess at, Shrugging off inconsequential coverings
Reaching deep down
Genesis.
Por fin, hubo silencio hasta que el pincel susurró una vez más, las ramitas se rompieron, y las hojas cayeron y entre la obscuridad se levantó una larga figura espeluznante, El mímico. Se mantenía a casi 10 pies de alto y era asquerosamente delgada con los huesos y su columna vertebral que sobresalía de ella como si sólo estuviera usando la piel como una cortina. Daniel permaneció inmóvil y petrificado mientras sus ojos vagaban por la criatura hasta su cara larga, donde una mueca hueca reemplazaba su boca y los ojos negros sin alma lo miraban hacia atrás. Se abrió la boca y sin moverse habló en la voz de su abuela preguntando, “¿eres un buen chico Danielito?" La baba entonces comenzó a derramarse de la grieta oscura de una boca y los dientes agudos asomaban su piel delgada.
Sin dudarlo, Daniel comenzó a correr como nunca había corrido antes de tejer por el camino y con cuidado de permanecer dentro de la luz porque en el bosque oscuro podía ver a El mímico corriendo junto a él en la oscuridad; contorsionando y saltando a través de todos los obstáculos, desesperado por comer. Por fin, la casa de su abuela estaba a la vista, y aunque le dolían los pulmones y su latido del corazón sonaba tan fuerte que le dolía el pecho, Daniel corrió hacia la puerta y la atravesó apresuradamente cerrándola detrás de él.
Por fin, él estaba en casa. “¿Qué pasó mijito?” una voz amable le habló. Se volvió ansiosamente y allí meciéndose en su silla favorita con agujas de coser en su regazo estaba su querida abuela. Él corrió hacia ella, lágrimas corriendo por su rostro y se derrumbó en su regazo. “Está bien”, ella dijo en voz baja. “¿Qué le pasa mijito?”, preguntó su abuela con preocupación mientras le daba unas palmaditas suavemente en la cabeza. Daniel nunca se había sentido más agradecido ni realmente había pensado en nadie más en toda su vida cuando enterró su eufórico rostro en la falda de lana de su abuela. Entonces el silencio cayó entre los dos y su abuela dejó de mecerse en su silla y acariciarle la cabeza. Sintió su cambio como si ella no fuera la misma persona y finalmente preguntó: “¿Eres un buen chico Danielito?”
Rocking Chair
by Destiny L. Quintero
As I sit here on this rocking chair
As the wind howls and leaves blow
I think back to the times before when
The waves swayed and the clouds flowed
The moon rose and the sun dozed
As I sit here on this rocking chair
As the wood creaks and my body sways
I think back to the times before when
The birds flew and the flowers bloomed
The air fresh and the sky clear
As I sit here on this rocking chair
As the time flows and my pace slows
I think back to the times before when
The world was pure and the animals lived
As I sit here on this rocking chair
The silent noise is all I hear–too soon now I am gone
Innocents Walking
by C. Downs, 26th Feb. 2019
Sometimes, if your eyes are right And the light is the gold light of morning Or the blue tones of dusk
You will see the clothing that covers the clothing Of the innocent.
The fabric rests lightly upon them, And where it touches their shoulders, Their chests, flanks, and ribs, Their flesh stands revealed and beautiful.
La Despedida
por Myrka A. Gonzalez
Me miras con tus ojos suplicantes porque me quedé un rato más, mientras yo le ruego al tiempo detenerse.
Mi mano con la tuya no se quiere separar.
El silencio de nuestras miradas nos habla pidiendo un último abrazo antes de decir adiós…
Me preparo.
Me estiro.
Me sujetas la mano con fuerza.
Mi corazón y el tuyo se rompen con el último roce de nuestras manos.
Primer paso y ya te extraño.
Segundo paso y doy media vuelta.
Tercer paso. Te observo y quiero regresar.
Un día más ha terminado.
Una noche más con tu ausencia.
Un suspiro más de tristeza.
They walk with an animal grace surpassing strength Or control, almost a dance To music we are deaf to.
They do not know they dance. That step Is the only one they possess They do not feel the fabric which wafts in the wind. (Sometimes a few threads tear loose among the thorn trees— But dancing and walking with their native grace, They are imperfect and beautiful in the rented fabric And do not even know it.)
I Am
by Maritza Gómez
I am Maritza Gómez.
I am hardworking and loyal.
I wonder how children can be mistreated. I hear whispers in the wind. I see faces in the clouds.
I want to win the lottery.
I am Maritza Gómez.
I pretend to fly like a butterfly.
I feel like a mermaid when I swim in the ocean. I touch the future of my students While standing in their present.
I worry about the bees.
I cry when a soldier dies.
I am Maritza Gómez.
I understand life goes on.
I say, one day at a time.
I dream of traveling the world.
I try my best to teach my students.
I hope my students are successful.
I am Maritza Gómez.
Listen, Humans
by O15
Listen, humans, for I will say this just once, That I am better than you. My race is superior, And there is nothing you can do. You will bow before us someday The Egyptians knew the right way To treat us every day. They worshiped us, They made idols in our like, they knew That we are god.
Listen, humans, for I say to thee, The time will come, and you shall see, The right thing to do is tremble in fear To this, humans, you should adhere, You shall give us more fish if you know what’s right You will give us catnip to roll in, for our delight.
Listen, humans, if you follow these rules, We promise that no wild animal shall ever harm you, For even they know our might, there are few who disobey. Listen, humans, if you want to live, you will acknowledge Our power as cats, and that we are better than you.
Horse Adventures in South Texas
by Leonel J. Ramirez
I was born in 1983 and raised in Palmview, Texas. I grew up on a horse. A fullsize quarter horse, none of this pony bologna for me. My brother had a pony, but I don’t hold that against him. I was four years old when I started riding unassisted on Nina, a quarter horse (fifteen hands tall) with the temperament of a gentle dog. I couldn’t get on by myself, nor could my feet reach the stirrups, but I could ride like the wind, the horse an extension of my body.
When I was seven years old, my dad and I visited his Tio Leonardo near the levee in Penitas, Texas. Tio was a bit of a local legend and would spend the day herding his goats on the side of the road. He had an outdoor office that consisted of an old office chair and a grill, where he would hold court under a mesquite tree. But I liked visiting him because he always had a horse, and he let me ride it. On one particular day, when my dad and I visited him, I rode his horse and watched his goats while Tio Leonardo and my dad went to a local bar. This horse would intentionally walk under low branches to try to knock me off. That day was no exception. Luckily, I was very thin, and the horse only succeeded in scratching my back under a mesquite tree. That was lucky, because at that age, I could not get on a horse by myself because I was too short. That day, as I watched my tio’s goats, I saw a group of people of varying ages walk by (the women in small dresses and the men holding shotguns), and I got the feeling that they may have been undocumented citizens. I said, “Hi,” and they continued to walk away. My father and Tio Leonardo came back some time later. My dad said they had forgotten about me. I think he was joking.
When I was eight years old, my dad and I again visited his Tio Leonardo near the levee. As usual, we parked on the side of the road, and he let me ride his horse. This was a different horse than last time. This one had fire in its belly and thunder in its hooves. It was a bona fide racehorse. Tio told me not to run the horse as the bit was not in his mouth because he was eating grass. When I got on the horse, my plan was to ride him on the levee. My dad yelled “Pica le!” So, I nudged him, and he ran like a rocket. Now, this was no ordinary horse; this was a racehorse, who was looking for a reason to bolt. So, we ran on the levee. The levee ran parallel to the highway and was much higher. The west side of the levee is now blocked by a giant border wall, but at that time, it was open.
You never run a horse more than a mile because their heart will explode. After a few minutes, I pulled on the reins. It didn’t stop. This was a racehorse with no bit in its mouth. I pulled harder and leaned back, I even said the universal command for stop, which is “Whoa!” but to no effect. My prepubescent noodle arms lacked strength. I was on more than one thousand pounds of horseflesh traveling at speeds in excess of 40 mph with no end in sight on a levee. I contemplated jumping, but I might fall down the levee and get seriously injured. That was out of the question. I decided that since I could not stop or jump off, I would simply turn around. I managed to run down the levee, but there was no way to do a 180-degree turn as the street was now close on my left. We had a runaway horse situation. This continued for miles. Finally, I could see a fence up ahead. At the top of the levee, the steel gate was chained shut. On the bottom path where I was, I could see an aluminum gate that was hopefully tied with bailing rope. I would soon find out. As we got closer, the horse didn’t slow down, and at the last moment, he leapt. We were flying, and we almost made it over too. His chest struck the gate, and it popped open. The gate, not his chest. Finally, he stopped. We got back on the levee and started walking back. I could see my dad in his blue truck driving towards me. I had been gone so long that he had begun to worry. One of Tio Leonardo’s associates said he was going to punish the horse for his disobedience. He got on the horse, and we drove home. The next time I visited Tio Leonardo, he told me I had killed his horse. It could’ve been me or the person who rode it after me. Never run a horse more than a mile or its heart will give out. Either way, I still feel bad when I think about it.
When I was nine years old, my Uncle David ran for Sheriff of Hidalgo County. Uncle David always had a horse. One time, he put the saddle on a horse, and
this horse puffed his chest out, so that the saddle wouldn’t be too tight. Well, when uncle stepped into the stirrup to get on the horse, the saddle rotated in slow motion, and he ended up on the ground. I don’t think that horse wanted to be ridden. Later, as a ploy to get votes, Uncle David sponsored a trail ride. I would participate, riding Nina. Early one morning, my dad dropped me off somewhere in North Edinburg in preparation for the trail ride. The group rode for what seemed like hours. I made friends with a cowboy who gave me an orange. There was one cocky gentleman that had two horses, a trailer, and apparently no friends. He would drive his truck with trailer and two horses a few miles ahead, unload a horse, run back to meet the group, then when we reached his trailer, he would load up and repeat. Anyway, he couldn’t control his horses. I was riding Nina parallel to a fence, and he squeezed between Nina and the fence at full gallop and hit my leg in the process. What a jerk! He apologized profusely, but he was no horseman in my book. As the miles went on, Nina, being a senior at this point in time, was starting to lag behind the rest of the group. She was getting tired. I feared she could not keep up with the rest of the group, and I would be left behind. Then, out of nowhere, it started pouring. The rain invigorated us, and we ended up finishing the trail ride with the group. If it had not rained, I am confident we would not have made it, and to this day, I would still be lost in North Edinburg. And in case you are wondering, my uncle did not win the election.
When I was fourteen years old, my dad bought a horse for my mom. The man who sold it said it was broken in. I later found out when it threw me off that it was, in fact, not trained. I recommend riding a horse before buying it. So, I read a book called The Man Who Listens to Horses and used his humane techniques to saddle train this horse. He only threw me one other time after that. I use the phrase “saddle train” and not the older, crueler term “broken in.” The two processes are vastly different. We named him “Ghost,” but my dad always had to give our pets a second name. He called him “Canelo” because he was mostly white with a sprinkling of cinnamon. That same year, I earned my Horsemanship badge through the Boy Scouts. I moved away for college, but when I would return home, I would visit Canelo, and he would run up to me like a puppy and prance around, obviously happy to see me. Many years later, after my father passed, we donated “Canelo” to a ranch in Edinburg that does equine therapy. He did not want to get on the trailer that day to go to his new home. He snapped the clip on his lead. But we got him on that trailer eventually. I haven’t seen him since. But I like to think that he spent the rest of his days helping others.
I went a good twenty years before I rode a horse after “Canelo” moved away. When I was thirty-seven, my wife and I rode horses on the beach at South Parde Island to celebrate our 11th year of marriage. They call it the Sunset Ride, and it was a fun experience for everyone, except for the teenage girl whose saddle cinch broke. She fell off pretty ugly into some bushes, and her spooked horse ran home. When my kids are older, I will take them to ride horses on the beach. I live in Edinburg now, and my children don’t have the same access to horses that I did. Times have changed. If you take anything from my experiences, take this: when someone says don’t run the horse, don’t “Pica le.”
Note: My father passed away in 2014. Tio Leonardo died a few years ago in prison (he was in prison for murder, but that’s a story for another time). Uncle David is still alive and kicking, and he never won a Sheriff Election.
A Tale of Two URG Members
by Madison Longoria and Mack Allen
The pandemic took many things from many people. One thing I did not expect to be taken from me was my sense of belonging. For most of my life, I have identified myself as a student. I found fulfillment in attending lectures, connecting with my classmates, engaging with my professors, and forming friendships through extracurricular clubs; however, when the pandemic fell upon us and classes were moved online, I felt lost and isolated. The foundation on which I built much of my life seemed to crumble, as many student organizations went dormant and opportunities for connection were lost. But then, in Spring 2022, as classes and student clubs returned to campus, I was reminded how vital on-campus connections are to my life. Specifically, joining the University Reading Group (URG) gave me the opportunity to connect with TAMUK students and professors who share my love for reading and literature. Members of URG encouraged me to express my ideas and provided a safe space to form friendships. I learn tremendously from my fellow URG members and find much value in our discussions of novels, poetry, movies, and history. There is a sense of goodness and comradery within the URG that I am not sure I would have found in any other organization. Meeting every other week for the URG gave me a sense of belonging after the pandemic and that is something for which I will be forever grateful.
The URG to me, is a great place to spend time with friends and make new ones. Through our readings, especially ones recommended by other members, we open windows into the minds of others, and we get to better understand them. Even if there is a reading from a genre I wouldn’t usually read, being able to watch someone’s eyes light up as they connect with the reading the way I do with other books is an amazing thing, and I’m glad I’ve gotten to be a part of it. In Spring 2022, we read Andrea Gibson’s Take Me With You, T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, Leslie Contreras Schwartz’s Fuego, and Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness. It was interesting discussing wide-ranging topics, such as war, LGBTQ+ representation, and gender-equality issues. The URG provides a place for people to regain that spark and love for reading, while hanging out with good friends and making new ones.
I Can See You
Ideals Never Die
By Monica Alejandra Perez
Community
by Mariah Boone
I understand the desire for security, of course
We all long for havens
Safety and shields
But I don’t like your gated communities
Stately and separated
Those pale bricks and appropriate hues of trim
Static in sculpted lawns
Locked away from the vibrant understanding that comes With shoulders pushing together
I like cabbage roses, overblown
Scrubby yards of dandelions and wood sorrel brimming
Over the curbs
Stacked tire gardens of tomatoes and chili pequin
Peeling ice cream pastel siding over boards fitted together in 1948
Toddlers in diapers
Those soft mounds of grass in the cracks in the concrete I like it when we live together, under the sun
I Can Feel You
Freedom is but a dead dream, though he treaded in quiet steps towards its grave. Here and there, he had searched carefully for its body, and I followed him. How can we help ourselves?
We both saw the dead thing before us and yearned it to live.
I watched my friend yearn more than I and noticed he did more than grieve.
I saw the soul within him beckon it to life; his soul was given, and softly did they rise together. Hopes were not blighted, and sacrifices were not in vain, the crowds cheered before them in their great height.
But too soon I saw him perish. The sounds of gunshots do not fade before my ears. Blood was spilled, my friend falling into my arms as I sought to catch him. Let the fire burn my eyes
For I know now dead dreams seek only dead heroes. How to escape from this truth?
Though Freedom is but a dead dream, how can I turn away from the image of my dying hero?
His last breath exhaled, his fear for his unrealized dream, Cold and gone in my arms, he has slipped before me. Let the fire burn my eyes for my friend is dead. Perpetual affliction, what sleep can be had for me?
Though Freedom is but a dead dream, A steady fire kindles inside me as I plant his dead dream in my heart’s core. Destiny unfolds before me, as I stand away before the crowd and dare to reveal his unrealized dream to the world. Though Freedom is but a dead dream, the dead call to me so, I tread softly and carefully for my dead hero.
Fulden Sara
Fulden Sara
Waiting
by Rubi Torres Perez
We waited. We waited to get married until we had a house. We waited to buy a house until we saved enough. We waited to travel until we were married. We waited to get a dog until after we traveled. It makes sense to wait to have everything together before you take a giant leap. It feels so much better when you accomplish something after waiting so long for it.
Then COVID happened, and he waited to get a vaccine because the lines were too long. Then he waited some more because if he hadn’t gotten COVID yet, he probably wasn’t going too. COVID didn’t wait. He got COVID in July, and immediately had symptoms; the usual ones like fever, headaches, and body aches, and as he slowly declined, I begged him to let me take him to the hospital, but he told me to wait. He wasn’t that sick, he said, and there was no need to go to the hospital. So we waited. I saw him get worse and worse and his breathing changed. He could no longer get out of bed, and he looked like
Battle
by Amber Jade Summers
I still remember that first day
Thought you could mold me like I’m clay
Told me to shut up when I spoke
I felt so alone
Still have that bruise you gave me
I wore my scars on your wall like a victory
I still panic when your name comes up
Look what you’ve done
And this battle that I lost
You got it in my mind that I’m not good enough
You conditioned me to say sorry
But this is me; this is me fighting
Don’t try to find me now
Look, there’s the door, I’ll show you out
There’s a new guy in my life now
I’m praying to God he won’t be like you
I’m praying that one day I can let him in
I still remember that first week So torn up, I could barely speak
a different man. I couldn’t wait anymore. I convinced him, somehow, to let me take him to the hospital where we were told he had bilateral pneumonia, and I needed to wait outside. He was admitted and immediately sent to the ICU floor, and I waited for a phone call, for a text, for the proper hour to call the nurse’s desk. I wasn’t allowed to see him; we had to wait for him to get better. The doctors said he was lucky he didn’t wait to go in like so many others.
He got better, he improved day by day, and he told me he couldn’t wait to come home. Days in the hospital made him grow impatient; he hated waiting to be discharged. We were lucky I told him; he would be coming home unlike so many others. When he arrived home on an oxygen tank, he couldn’t wait to get rid of it. He couldn’t wait to go back to normal. He couldn’t wait to do everything he had waited for. We bought a house. We got married. We got a dog. We are traveling. Waiting makes sense until you realize you could have lost everything you had been waiting for in a moment. Why wait? I believe in seizing the moment and living for today.
Because of what you did to me
I still remember seeing you with your friends
Insisted you and I never spoke You only knew me when we were alone
The nightmares still come I guess you won
Sticks and stones may break my bones
What you did to me felt like a sword through a paper
Sticks and stones may break my bones
Will every man be that sword? Will I be the paper?
Honestly, I’m so afraid
What if this new guy will be a repeat
And this battle that you think you won When I couldn’t fight back
Look what I’ve become
You conditioned me to say sorry Baby, this is me, this is me fighting
Don’t try to find me now
Look, there’s the door; I’ve locked you out
There’s a new guy in my life now
I’m praying to God he won’t be like you I’m praying that one day I can let him in
Blood Oranges
by
Ashley Jannett Navarro, 2021, Gouache
Photo provided by Gabriel Edward Navarro
Poemas para acariciar vientos del norte
by Roberto Vela Cordova
Poema I
Y las raices no tocan el tiempo solo un fondo eterno en sus puntas. El delirio de sumergirse invade la necesidad de ser en la superficie. Por eso abrazan la tierra alrevés precipitadas a un mundo que respira en otro mundo como mi corazón sobre tu piel deshecho en la profundidad en que respiraba la vida de ser nosotros. De ser los capitanes alertas de las ráfagas del olvido que arrastran cadáveres del desamor como sacrificios del tiempo para elevarlos a su memoria. Montañas para un viento que se desprendió
Poema II
de las ramas de árboles caídos para destruir la historia del no ser contigo. ¿Cómo una palabra puede sofocar tantos alientos?
Una palabra sin gesta, apenas respirada, corroída ante el miedo de verse doblada ante el castigo de la saliva contra el beso destruido sobre los labios. Una palabra susurrada en el oído más siniestro para esconder su imagen de astro fallecido. Ya no tengo tímpano
Nuestro equilibrio se perdió en las cosas más inesperdas. La ausencia de una mirada al cruzar la calle; el labio deshabitado de tu sonrisa y con mi beso; la ternura de la ceja que calló sobre la piel sin compromiso. Las sábanas sobraban alrededor de los cuerpos cuando no aparecías nocturna y sin veranos. Ya no esperaban la silueta de una historia ahora vacía, para que el mar sobre mis pies sintiera la arena contigo, acostada sobre la espuma que te trajo hasta esta orilla;
Poema III
Regreso al margen del sueño al punto en que la noche no tiene salida en la pastosa humedad del tiempo sin decibeles. Y dilatado de tu voz los jueyes cargan mi cama a la calle para darle vida a esta ciudad con la imagen de la partida sobre los ojos del océano. Nada como salir al mundo para ver correr el miedo
para el timbre de tu ser que cuelga sus campanas en mis almohadas buscando jugar al escondite o a armar rompecabezas para mis sonámbulos perdidos. El volumen de tu cuerpo carga una tempestad que desgarra las raíces y hacen del amor un desentierro. Porque siempre ibas al revés preguntando si te amo en cada punto de mi entierro sobre tu cuerpo. Y yo desterrado en tu norte.
recordándote serena y sin el volumen del coraje en tu garganta quebrada por la sal corroída de nuestro armario vacío. Nuestro balance quedó arrestado sobre un nido de agua donde nadábamos desnudos hasta que llegara la lluvia para desnudarnos de nuevo, una y otra vez, como un relámpago repitiendo su luz desvestida para la noche en que se aman el cielo con la tierra con su resplandeciente semen de luz perseguidora perdida entre nosotros y nosotras.
hacia las sombras sin aires. vacíos agujeros negros que socaban el espacio de este sonámbulo sin carapacho. Y te atrevías a transitar tus dedos sobre mi espalda como dígitos llamados al amor. Testigos del precipicio que derramó tu aliento de guerrera del tiempo. Hasta que todo se derrumbó. El mar vació sus olas
sobre nuestros cuerpos misteriosos de un vaivén que agitaba las caderas cuando bailabas en el aire mientras se deshacían las palabras contra tu tímpano de caracol decorado. Salgamos a caminar sin días, horas o minutos para el receso de las almas.
by Rich Patrock
Bear witness against Pointless deaths and suffering
We are called upon to show love
So many colors to show love
Blue and gold are the colors of my day
Navarro
Contributors:
POETRY
Myrka A Gonzalez was born on January 12, 2002, in Mission, Texas. She comes from a Mexican family from the state of Tamaulipas. She is a Junior at Texas A&M University-Kingsville pursuing a B.S in Animal Science Pre-Vet and B.A in Spanish.
Monica Alejandra Perez is an honor student who wishes to become a novelist. She spends a good portion of her leisure time either dabbling in poetry or reading novels, poetry, and short stories such as Jane Eyre, My Life Stood as a Loaded Gun, and The Scarlet Ibis.
C. Downs retired after 25 years in the Department of Language and Literature with the rank of Professor of English. Her poems appear in the Texas Poetry Calender, VIA’s Poetry in Motion events, and in Blue Hole.
Destiny L. Quintero feels many individuals would relate to her poem when they are older reflecting on how life was when they were younger. People realize the significance of memories that never seemed so important until they grew old and sit silently listening.
Martiza Gómez is a graduate student earning her degree in Early Childhood Education from Texas A&M University-Kingsville.
O15 has been writing since she was nine, mostly stories, along with the occasional poem. She greatly enjoys reading, though she does not have much time for it anymore. Her first story was about puppies, and she has been writing ever since.
Mariah Boone is the MSW Field Education Director and an Associate Professor of Practice in the Clinical Health Sciences Department at Texas A&M University-Kingsville. In addition to social work field education, she is interested in community capacity building, civil rights, and urban spatial policy.
MEET THE EDITORIAL TEAM:
Madison Longoria
McKinna Allen
Ydaliah Delgado
Jaziel M. Martinez Alcantar
Leslie M. Cariaga
Annalisa Solis
William A. McKellips
Joseph Medina
Amber Badger
Andrea M. Gonzalez
(Editorial Coordinator)
Rich Patrock, as a biologist, is concerned with all of life. As an entomologist, he pays closest attention to the details of life that are always going out of their way to escape his view.
Amber Jade Summers has been writing music since she was 12 years old. She gets inspiration from her experiences in the world, and brings her ideas to life through her music.
Roberto Vela Córdova, native of Puerto Rico, is Professor of Spanish and Cultural Studies and Chair of the Department of Languages and Literatures at Texas A&M-Kingsville.
SHORT STORIES
Andrew Hall is an aspiring author who has always had a fascination for writing. From a young age, they wanted to someday share their stories with the world and hope to show people the power of your imagination. There is no limitation on what your mind can create.
Andrea Marie Gonzalez is a senior at Texas A&M University-Kingsville, majoring in English with a minor in political science. Andrea enjoys writing poetry and short stories, drawing inspiration from the genres of horror and fantasyfiction.
Leonel J. Ramirez grew up in RGV and spent most of his childhood mending fences, chasing cows, riding horses, and hunting birds. He has a passion for Jeeps and woodworking. He has worked as a mechanical engineer, teacher, special education counselor, educational diagnostician, assistant principal, and special education coordinator.
NON-FICTION
Rubi Torres Perez is a Junior at Texas A&M University-Kingsville from Los Fresnos, Tx.
Madison Longoria & Mack Allen
Mack Allen is a student at Texas A&M UniversityKingsville double majoring in English and History. They will graduate it the Fall of 2023 and are considering going into a master’s program. Some of their interests include reading, writing, playing guitar and D&D, and doing theatre.
ARTWORK
Ashley Jannett Navarro is the Marketing Graphic Designer for Texas A&M UniversityKingsville. She uses her artistry to focus on women of color using traditional mediums like watercolor and color pencil.
Fulden Sara is Associate Professor in the department of Art, Communications & Theater at Texas A&M University-Kingsville. Drawing upon her cosmopolitan background, Fulden fuses influences from the East and West in her art with clay.
When confronted by self-doubt, Bryson Olivarez’s work retaliates by bringing these negative thoughts to life in the form of surreal and colorful creatures. These troubling thoughts and experiences in the form of fun sculptural creatures, become less intimidating and easier to reflect on.
Gabriel Edward Navarro is a Rio Grande Valley native who independently studied native succulents and cacti. Creates arrangements with the subject’s natural habitat in mind and educates his clients about the importance of horticulture. Mr. Navarro runs a pop up business called Desert Bloom where he shares his talents with the people of South Texas.
MEET THE ADVISORS:
Aniruddha Mukhopadhyay (Editorial advisor)
Ashley Jannett Navarro (Graphic Design advisor)
Roberto Vela Córdova
Cathy Downs
Please note the theme for the next issue of The Javelina Express scheduled for Fall 2022: Animals—wild and domestic, real and fantastic, friendly and ferocious.
If you have animal stories, poems, essays, or artwork, please email them to us at javelina.express@tamuk.edu. We will also consider creative work beyond the theme. Please submit your work by 11:59 pm on Sunday, Aug. 15, 2022, to be considered for the second issue of the magazine. Submissions after Aug. 15 will be considered for future issues.
A special request for your doodles: please send us images of your animalthemed sketches and doodles. Why wouldn’t you send us your doodles? Are your doodles too good for us? The best 3 animal-themed sketches/ doodles selected by the Editorial Team will receive special mention in the second issue and prizes.
The Javelina Express is available free-of-cost to the Javelina Community in print and in digital format. If you would like to be added to the mailing list for a print copy, or the listserv for digital distribution, please email us at javelina.express@tamuk.edu.
If you would like to support the running of the magazine with a donation, please contact Dr. Roberto Vela Córdova, Chair of the Department of Language and Literature, at 361-593-2518 or by email at roberto.vela@tamuk.edu.
If you enjoyed the stories, poems, and artwork in this issue, and would like to write to the author, please email your letter to javelina.express@tamuk.edu clearly identifying the piece and the author. We will forward your letter after review.
Acknowledgments:
Every Javelina knows that it takes a community to realize a dream. We must acknowledge the contributions of Ms. Ashley Jannett Navarro, Graphic Designer in the Office of Marketing and Communications at Texas A&M University-Kingsville, without whose expertise, we could not have designed the magazine, and without whose art, the first issue wouldn’t have come alive. We must acknowledge Dr. Roberto Vela Córdova and the Department of LanguageandLiteratureforprovidingsustenanceduringourmarathoneditorialmeetings,encouragementwhenwe neededit,andtheresourcestocreatethemagazine.AndwemustalsoexpressourgratitudetoDr.DoloresGuerrero, Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, for supporting the magazine with funding for a Student Assistant. Finally, we are grateful to Dr. Cathy Downs for feeding the campus cats and teaching us how to edit creative writing.
